Silicon Will
by Ancalime1
Summary: Two stories from two different points of view, both of which are set sometime after the first Tron movie.
1. Ported

Mr. Alan Bradley was not particularly fond of the Grid.

This was to be expected, of course. His occupation as Encom's number one pencil-pusher served as the basis of his comfort zone. Sure, he'd spent his teenagerhood engrossed in scads of cyber-fictional stories. Sure, he'd penned fistfuls of programs during his time spent at Encom, each with different functions and personalities of their own. But when that was all said and done, he belonged in front of the screen, not inside it. That was Flynn's turf.

Of course, anything that involved Kevin Flynn seemed to consequently involve Alan's hand too. Perhaps it was because they'd spent so damn long working on the same floor together, or because of that one time in which he, Flynn, and Lora had pulled an allnighter giving the Master Control Program a thorough beatdown. Since then, Alan had been under Flynn's thumb for an uncomfortably long time—and that meant precious time spent rummaging around inside the Grid.

It was Flynn's biggest project, his master composition. In his eyes, discovering the Grid also meant discovering reformation, order, perfections. "A new world to change _our_ world," he would say. Not that Alan particularly cared—the less he was involved in Flynn's 'playing God' game, the better. Of course, he wouldn't have even been in this mess if it hadn't been for Tron.

When Flynn had first requested access to such software, Alan almost choked on his coffee. Why Flynn had any need for an obsolete program such as Tron was beyond him. He used the term 'obsolete' lightly, knowing that it had only been a year since the program was conceived. Regardless, Alan had already had his first taste of the Grid—and what he saw confirmed his suspicions that Tron was in no way capable of meeting its demands. But Flynn reassured him that with a few tweaks (by Alan's permission, of course), he would bring the program up-to-snuff. Alan raised an eyebrow over it, but he wasn't going to bother arguing. Hands were shaken, and Tron was transferred to the greener pastures of the Grid.

Alan, once again, was not very pleased with what he saw.

It was just this evening, in fact, when Flynn had invited him over to his office beneath the arcade to catch up on the Grid's progress. The clock struck ten, and the clamor had finally died down with the closing of the arcade. Flynn was stooped over his desk, fingers running across the keyboard like spiders over water. Occupying the screen before him was an immense command-line interface, rapidly filling with lines of text. Alan had stationed himself in the doorway, in case any arcade stragglers had found themselves where they were not supposed to be. He glanced at his watch, glanced at Flynn, and then ventured, "How are the upgrades coming along?"

The clattering of keys stopped, and Flynn threw his hands behind his head. "Funny you should ask that, Alan," he said with a laugh. "That's actually why I brought you here."

"Then it's done, I take it?"

"Yahtzee. And now I get to play show and tell." The clattering resumed, and yet another line joined the immense wall of text:

 **# bin/LLLSDLaserControl -ok 1**

"Fantastic," muttered Alan. He shoved his hands in his pockets and strode over to Flynn's left, eyeing the small dialogue box that had appeared on the screen.

 **APERTURE CLEAR?**

 **YES**

 **NO**

Alan held his breath as Flynn's hand hovered just above the keyboard. It was in this moment when a mutual rush of adrenaline washed over them both, like the feeling one gets in the gripping seconds before liftoff. And then, with a deep breath, he confirmed the prompt. "All set. Buckle up, buttercup."

"Flynn, what—"

Alan was cut short as the digitizing beam shot out of its resting place and into his being. Time seemed to stand still as the laser did its work, rapidly translating organic matter into code. Heartbeats later, and he and Flynn were standing in a virtualized rendition of the office beneath the arcade.

A wad of nerves seemed to lodge itself inside his throat. He'd visited the Grid multiple times, was a regular customer. But every time he'd lay eyes on the interior of the dataspace—every time his sight passed over the Grid's circuit-laced and glossy black aesthetic—he couldn't suppress a shiver of what was either awe or fear. For some inexplicable reason, the Grid still amazed and terrified him.

Flynn, of course, was blissfully unaware of his friend's unease. Flashing Alan a gaudy smile, he said. "All right, follow me. I want you to see our man of the hour."

Alan immediately forgot his discomfort and rolled his eyes. Trudging after Flynn, the two exited the digitized shell of the office, and trudged down a bleak path that skirted what looked to be the beginnings of a city. Alan let his gaze wander to the half-configured buildings that he could have sworn weren't there last time. They flickered and glowed a dull blue, signifying that construction was still in process. Yet in spite of their incompleteness, he was instantly impressed—and to his dismay, Flynn noticed.

"Like what you see, eh?"

"I'll give credit where credit is due."

"Fair enough." He grinned deviously at Alan and then said, "You know, man, this'd be a lot faster if you'd just suck your gut in and take a light bike."

"Very funny. Remind me to remove your permissions to Tron when I get out of here."

"Youch. Alan, one; Flynn, zero."

Alan's mouth became a thin line. No, he had personally never ridden a lightcycle. But he had once tried his hand at motorcycling, an event which, suffice it to say, found him in the ER approximately ten minutes later. His stomach churned at the very thought—no way was he making _that_ mistake again.

A series of looming edifices dotted the landscape before them, constructions that vaguely reminded him of the concrete parking structures of Los Angeles. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and trailed after Flynn, until they had arrived at a large, warehouse-like structure that pulsed with white circuitry. The first thing they were greeted with was a thumbprint scanner; something in which only Flynn had access to, given the fact that humanoid programs had no fingerprints of their own. He pressed his thumb against the scanner, waited for it to process, then pushed his way through the entrance.

"So this is your new testing grounds, then?" inquired Alan.

"It's where I keep the Master Disc," said Flynn, guiding him through a series of circuit-laced corridors. "What with all these new programs up-and-running, I've had to put in a few security measures. Nothing big."

"Security measures?" queried Alan. "You're the system administrator. Can't you just make the disc exclusively accessible to you?"

"I did. This—" he said, gesturing to the scanner, "is my fallback."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "Don't you think you're being a bit paranoid, Flynn?"

At this, Flynn halted in his tracks, prompting Alan to catch himself from colliding into him. "The Master Disc is a bit more valuable than you'd think, man," said Flynn, eyeing his friend carefully. "As far as I know, it's the only way of getting out of here. I configured it to return to this very spot every time I exit the Grid, which means that it's ripe for the taking whenever I'm not around." He let out a brief sigh and added, "I'm willing to act a little paranoid to prevent my disc from falling into the wrong hands."

Alan shrugged indifferently. "Your playground, your rules."

"Glad you understand." Flynn activated yet another thumbprint scan, triggering a sliding door that opened to a small room before them. "Okay, boss. Here you go."

He beckoned Alan forward. After staring at it for approximately ten seconds he said, "I don't understand. I thought you were going to show me the progress on Tron?"

Flynn tapped the wall nearest the doorway, and the floor panels immediately lit up in a harsh hue of white. After trudging through the utter blackness of the Grid, the sudden illumination had caught Alan off guard and caused his eyes to water in protest. But as soon as his vision had returned, a lump of dread formed in his throat.

Propped against the wall was a dark, unmoving mass—unmoving, but undoubtedly alive. He was curled in the fetal position, head tucked inwards and arms twined round his knees. He was clad in black armor, armor that Alan was certain should have been alight with circuitry. But what he saw instead were gashes of worn code that pulsed a dull and sickly blue. He approached the unconscious man, bent down to inspect his face, and leapt backwards in shock. Flynn had once explained to him that certain programs bore strong resemblances to their users. Nevertheless, what he saw haunted him. Minus the armor-getup, he could have very well been looking at himself.

"Good God, Flynn," he said hollowly. "What's wrong with him?"

A thoughtful frown crossed Flynn's face. "Rewrites, upgrades… I needed to modify him a bit so that he could function properly inside this system. Thing is, this whole process works like how surgery works for us. Only I don't know anybody who's had quite as many surgeries as this guy has had modifications."

"Seriously, Flynn," urged Alan. "Forget about Tron. He's not cut out for the Grid, plain and simple. Just write a different security program, one that'll fit the mould for this system, and—"

"You weren't there," said Flynn suddenly. "You wouldn't get it."

"What're you talking about?"

"A year ago, at Encom. Think about it."

"What're you talking about? Of course I—"

"I meant _inside_ ," snapped Flynn. "You weren't there, so you didn't see. Sure, you were the one who wrote Tron. Thing is, you see this guy as nothing more than just a handy bit of software to fend off all those trojans and worms and whatnot. But he's so much more than that, man." Flynn paused for a moment, eyes alit with nostalgia. "When I met him, he was a hero. Not only did he bail my ass out on multiple accounts, he also trashed Dillinger's plans and put the MCP in its place. No, Alan, it wasn't you or me or Lora that brought Encom back—It was Tron."

Alan, despite his friend's sudden outburst, remained unfazed. "So in short, you really have no reason to bring Tron here, and you're just acting on pure sentimentality?"

Flynn pressed a hand to his forehead and offered Alan a wan smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess that's what it is. Sentimentality."

Alan wetted his lips and looked Tron up and down once more. "He sure looks like he's in a lot of pain," he said quietly.

"He'll come around," said Flynn. "Just needs to recharge. You'll see." He paused for a few seconds, then murmured, "You know, it never ceases to amaze me how… how incredibly _human_ he is. Not just by how he looks, but how he acts. How he feels. I dunno, it's strange."

Alan didn't respond right away. Instead, his eyes were fixated on the pulsing wounds of his digital doppelganger. It chilled him to the bone, and what Flynn just said had done nothing to mend the situation. He studied the program for seconds more before saying, "Maybe you should reconsider these transferrals. Of the programs, I mean—I know that you probably intended to move a few more over to the Grid."

"Only the essentials," said Flynn quickly. "This place needs looking after, and I can't spend all my time in here."

"Flynn, look. I know, okay? By all means, go ahead and finish Tron's modifications. But after that, no more porting over programs. Because if they _are_ as human as you say, then it's your job to treat them as such."

Flynn opened his mouth to protest, then promptly closed it when he saw Tron stir. It was a small movement and not one that promised imminent consciousness, but a movement nonetheless. He pressed a hand to his brow and sighed in resignation. "Damn. I really should have thought this through," he said quietly. "Okay, you win. No more ported programs—scout's honor."

"Good," said Alan. "I assume we're done here, then?"

"Yeah. Let's get the hell out of here."

There was no hesitation in Alan's step as he made his way out of the dim alcove. It was Tuesday evening, and _good_ _God_ he wanted to go home. Flynn, on the other hand, lagged a little behind. He studied Tron once more, noted the flickering blue gashes that ran up and down the program's weakened form, and then followed Alan out the exit.

He wondered just how soon he would break his promise.


	2. Chrysalis

He remained in stasis for approximately two millicycles.

Two things he was able to comprehend during this time: the fleeting movement of footseps, and an exchange of hushed and urgent voices. But shortly after he had begun to examine both stimuli, his processing unit flickered out. And when it had rebooted again, both movement and voices had ceased.

He was currently undergoing reconfiguration—that much he understood. Somehow he had been immensely damaged, forcing his processor to power down while self-reparation procedures took place.

As his code continued to repair itself, his other senses began to come back online. He now gathered that he lay in a cool, dark place with walls as sleek as silicon. But his visual input yielded little more than that, and a quick scan informed him that his memory files were inaccessible at this time for whatever reason. Thus any information he had of this place was either just out of reach or otherwise nonexistent.

A dull thumping noise won his attention, a noise he knew to be an indication of someone approaching. _Footsteps,_ he thought idly. Not that he particularly cared. The name of the sound was irrelevant; the action itself had interested him far more, as it meant that he would no longer be alone.

The newcomer's arrival seemed to catalyze his repairs, to his amazement. His vision had suddenly returned to full force, and his sight was immediately clogged with all sorts of colors and patterns. Overwhelmed with the new stimulus, he elected to power down his visual input—no, _eyes_ they were called. But when he opened them again, both colors and patterns had arranged themselves into an ensemble of flickering images and intricate webs of circuitry.

Now he was now given the luxury of viewing his guest, a figure clad entirely in black, a singular stripe of light running down his jacket. A shaggy mop of hair sat upon his head, and he wore a toothy grin on his face. "Good to see you again, man," he heard him say.

Something pinged in the back of his processor, something he knew he was supposed to recognize. "Sorry… what?" he croaked, surprised that he could even speak. The words felt strange on his lips, but he ignored the sensation and proceeded anyways. "Who are you?"

The grin slowly fell off of his visitor's face. "Still reconfiguring, then," he said quietly. He folded his arms and bowed his head, appearing to be in deep thought. "I didn't want to disrupt your repairs," he said after a while. "Thing is, I'm running way behind schedule. I'm gonna have to sync you up with your disc and get you going."

"Come again?" he stammered. _My... disc?_

The man smiled wanly. "Eh, nothing for you to worry about." He began to rummage through his coat pockets, and produced a curious-looking device just micros later. It was a circular object, o-shaped and pulsing a soft white. "Take this and latch it onto the disc dock on your back," the man instructed. Noticing his skepticism the man added, "You'll feel better, I promise."

He stared at the object being offered to him with mounting interest. A strange sensation washed over him just then, and he found himself drawn to the object. But just as his excitement grew, so did his vigilance, and he tentatively reached out and grasped onto it.

It felt warm in his hands. Very faintly he could hear a gentle thrum, and he could swear that the circuits lining his body began to glow brighter than before. And then, as if driven by instinct, he reached behind him and clasped the object onto his back.

He felt himself begin to sway in and out of consciousness, as if on the verge of sleep mode. Images began to overcome his processor, and it wasn't long before he realized that those images were his _memories._

" _That's Tron—he fights for the users."_

" _Yori, it's me! Don't you remember?"_

" _You really think the users are still out there?"_

" _Prepare to terminate!"_

He began to tremble, feeling as if his circuits would overload. All his pain, everything he had forgotten… it was all coming back to him now in one massive wave of electricity. Just microcycles ago he wanted to remember—and now that he _did_ remember, he wanted to forget.

In the midst of all this, he could see the man standing on the far side of the room, face carven with sadness and… hope. His processor pinged once more, this time informing him that this man was someone he had met before—more specifically, he was a user by the name of Flynn.

"This… this can't be real," he choked. "Flynn… What are you doing here? And where is _here_?" He paused, grappling for the right words. His processor immediately became inundated with questions, so many questions. It seemed to him like cycles before he finally whispered, "What's happening to me?"

Concern began to shadow Flynn's face. "Whoa. Take it easy, pal." Bending down so that the two were now face-to-face he said, "Look at me. Do you remember me? Do you know who I am?"

Something seemed to lodge itself in his throat. "You… you're a user," he stammered. " _The_ user. You deleted the MCP!"

"Now, now. Don't make my head bigger than what it is,"said Flynn jokingly. "Besides, I couldn't have done a damn thing without you, Tron."

Once more his processor pinged, much stronger and far more intensely than before. The last word Flynn had spoken kept reverberating in his ears, like an echo inside a yawning tunnel. _Tron._ What a strange word. And yet he felt as if he should have recognized it somehow, and should have never forgotten it in the first place. _Tron._ Why…?

Flynn had obviously noticed the confusion on his face. Arching an eyebrow, he prompted, "You do remember your name, don't you?"

The object inside his throat seemed to swell as he wracked his processor. He had discovered records of myriad names within his recovering memory, and 'Tron' didn't correspond with any of them. Could it really be _his_ name? Why then couldn't he remember it?

A soft voice echoed in the back of his mind, a voice from an earlier file: " _That's Tron—he fights for the users."_

The memory came crashing back, and what he saw overwhelmed him. Yes, Kevin Flynn was there. But he was there, too. This time he could remember.

"My name is... Tron," he said at last. "I… I don't know why that was so difficult to recall…."

Flynn offered him a sympathetic look. "Yeah. My fault. Had to reconfigure you, make you compatible with this system. Of course, the whole process turned out to be a bit messier than I expected—"

"Excuse me," interrupted Tron. " _This_ system?"

"Yeah. Can't you tell the difference?"

Tron cast a hasty glance around the room. Dark, blue circuitry, more circuitry, more dark… "I see the circuits are a different color," he said bitterly. "The #CEF6F5 is a nice touch."

Flynn gave an amused smile. "I don't remember progamming you to be sarcastic," he chuckled. "Must've been Alan's work."

"Alan-1?" gasped Tron. "Is he here?"

Flynn's mouth twitched. "Uh, no," he said, throwing a hand behind his head. "He came by earlier, though, to check in on you."

"And I missed him," said Tron, crestfallen. "I would have like to have met him… though I don't suppose I would have recognized him."

"You will," promised Flynn. "Besides, he'll want to see you, now that you're up and running."

There was no response from Tron. The program himself had communicated with Alan-1 on multiple occasions already; several of his memory files indicated instances in which he had been standing alone in an Input/Output tower, awaiting instructions from his user. Tron calculated that to meet him in person would be immensely different than this such scenario, and would at least give him some evidence that Flynn was not the only user existent.

"Flynn," said Tron at last, "where are the others? Where are Yori and Dumont and… Ram…."

Waves of agonizing realization crashed into him, and he began to tremble. _Of course._ Ram had been derezzed, and so had Dumont. And Yori? Had she been ported to this system, as Tron had been? Or had she too been eliminated? Wordlessly he pleaded Flynn for answers, only to find that the user himself had been silenced by grief.

Cycles seemed to have passed before Flynn spoke again. "Yori is alive and well, but the others… man, I'd have hoped you would have remembered."

"I did," rasped Tron. He wished he hadn't.

"You've gotta understand, Tron," Flynn continued. "Bringing you here has caused you a lot of pain, and it's my fault. I… I don't think I could do the same to Yori, or to any other program. No one else should have to pay for my mistakes."

 _But I do,_ thought Tron bitterly. _I have to pay. And now I'm all alone._

"Please, Tron," said Flynn softly. "You do understand, don't you?"

He did. He understood, and Flynn knew it. Glancing once more at the worn gashes of code across his chest, and imagining Yori in a such a state as this, he murmured a faint "Yes."

Flynn placed a hand on his shoulder. And while the gesture was well-intended, Tron could not help but flinch away from the touch. And how could he not? How could he let himself be comforted by the man who had taken everything away?

Flynn bowed his head. "I… can't begin to imagine how you must be feeling right now. If there's anything I can do, anything you want…."

"What I _want_ is no longer functionally possible," cut in Tron. "Home, Flynn. Home is what I had wanted. But you've made it clear that I am here to stay. So tell me, what is it you intend to do with me? And what is it that this system can accomplish that the other could not?"

"You're beginning to sound like Alan," muttered Flynn, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I brought you here because I know what you're capable of. This system—the Grid—it's gonna change the user world forever. And you, you are instrumental to that change, Tron."

"But I'm not a user. I'm just a security program," said Tron bitterly.

"A security program who fights for the users," put in Flynn. "But more than that, you're my friend. If I'm going to build a new world, then I'm going to do it alongside you."

"Your… friend?" echoed Tron. _What an interestingly inappropriate word for such a relationship._ He stared at his circuit-laced hands, not wishing to meet Flynn's gaze.

"Yes, Tron. My friend." Tentatively he reached out and grasped Tron's hands and, when there were no signs of protest, pulled him into a tight embrace. "I know that Yori and the others are gone, and I know that I could never close the hole that they left. But you won't be alone here. I… I'm here for you."

"I believe you," whispered Tron. _Not that I have any other choice._

"Good." Flynn unwrapped his arms from the program, and offered him a small smile. "Now, you need to rest for a good long while. These have been a strenuous couple of cycles, and I don't need you up and crashing on me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," replied Tron flatly.

"I know you wouldn't," laughed Flynn. He clapped a hand to the program's back. "Take care, Tron. I'll be seeing you again soon."

Tron did not watch him go, did not see the shadow of concern on the user's face as he exited the room. Rather, his processor had become overwhelmed with thoughts of Yori, who by now would have discovered his absence. Would she know that he would not be coming back? Or did she think, perhaps, that he had been derezzed? Angrily his thought turned once more to Flynn, to the man who had once liberated him. He felt enslaved once more, trapped under the thumb of a supposedly benevolent user. _I believed in the users because I had believed in freedom_ , he thought. _But_ _Flynn and the Master Control Program... they're one and the same._

This he was almost certain of—his calculations confirmed that. Yet something in his conscience insisted that such a statement simply wasn't the truth, despite the logical evidence.

He didn't know what to believe anymore—not in freedom, not in the users, not in himself. He decided that he would believe in nothing, and trust no one.

He clasped his hands to head and shut his eyes.


End file.
